


masks that monsters wear, to feed

by manticoremoons



Series: blood and candy revenge tour [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, Blood and Torture, Character Death, Compulsion, Dark Comedy, Dark Daenerys Targaryen, Dark Jon Snow, Dark Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Dirty Talk, F/M, Gen, Horror, Inspired by The Vampire Diaries, Memory Related, Modern Era, POV Multiple, Sex, Smut, Vampires, Violence, a brooding prince, also some lucifer inspiration, and also highkey unstable, and btvs bc who am i without it?, and they're also big dumb dumbs lol, as in the rules of the 'verse, features time jumps of a fashion, i find myself funny at least, i.e. vampire hypnotism for those not up on the TVD lingo, if u imagine jon holding a skull half the time, if you know tvd you know why jon has an ugly ring lmao, it makes everything better, jon and dany are more impactful than the night king, not Stark-friendly, part of a series, read the first story or you will be confused, sansa is actualfax hilarious to write i've discovered, the first stop in the revenge tour, the superior dead pple tbqh, this is also a comedy, vampires are creepy, when it comes to vampirism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 22:23:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20496284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manticoremoons/pseuds/manticoremoons
Summary: Therapy, a massacre, and a throne used for a dubious purpose.(the first story in the series must be read to make sense)





	masks that monsters wear, to feed

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea where this energy has come from but I'm riding the wave. I promised this series would continue, and here is the second installment. Written without a beta and in a fever of energy this evening. So sorry for errors, have tried to sort them out but probably missed a couple.
> 
> Part of this story is told from the point of view of two different characters. 
> 
> Not much to say in the notes. The poetry and title comes from Portishead's Wandering Star.

Those who have seen the needles eye, now tread  
Like a husk, from which all that was, now has fled  
And the masks, that the monsters wear  
To feed, upon their prey  
Wandering stars, for whom it is reserved  
The blackness of darkness forever

** **

** _ now _ **

Dr Catelyn Westerly had been practising in Kingsland, Westeros for more than forty years.

The man currently reclining on her couch had been visiting her for nearly thirty-five of those years, and in that time, he’d not aged a day. Sometimes, it was on the tip of her tongue to ask him how such a thing was possible. But then she’d invariably forget to ask the question. Her habitual forgetfulness when it came to him didn’t seem to affect her hard-earned psychology doctorate. In fact, he’d often said she was a great help to him. That sometimes, he just needed someone to listen, and _who better than a lady named Catelyn?_

Dr Westerly wasn’t sure what her name had to do with it. But she wanted to help him. _Jon_. He never had shared his surname.

This evening—and he always booked the last time slot she made available in the day, when the sun had already crossed the horizon—he’d been staring morosely into space for several minutes. His hands, which had always been covered in an interesting number of scars for as long as she’d known him, as though he spent his time handling weapons, were playing with one of the bright blue stress balls she had in stock for patients with a need for motor distraction and calming. His only jewelry was a rather ostentatious ring on his left forefinger. If she squinted, she could just make out the Knights' Templar cross on it. His hair was caught in a neat bun at the base of his neck, a fashionably long hairstyle that the young’uns sported these days. He wore a pair of spectacles and a stubble, and an all-black ensemble of jeans and a Henley that Dr Westerly’s twenty-year old daughter would call “Soho hipster but super-hot.”

Now, she was his doctor, so of course she’d never think of a patient that way. But Dr Westerly hadn’t always been a grey-haired sixty-year-old. When she met Jon, she’d been young herself, and she had noticed he was something of a stud then. Even if broody.

Sighing, she said, “You know, you pay me an absurd amount of money to sit here and listen to you—you might as well talk and get your wallet’s worth.”

Jon rubbed his forehead between his thumb and forefinger, as though he was trying to pull a tension headache out of there by some threads.

“I’m overwhelmed with the memory of my sins, doc.”

“What sorts of sins.”

“Too many to count.” He was like this sometimes. Reluctant to share. It made playing psychologist feel like pulling teeth.

“Well, why don’t we start with one and see how we go.”

This time he was the one who heaved a sigh. “I don’t like to remember some of the things I’ve done.”

“What things, Jon?”

He tilted his head to look at her, his eyes boring into hers as he said casually. “Kill. Murder. Massacre. Maim.”

Dr Westerly had an idea that she should be appalled but she merely nodded. “Tell me more about it.”

** _ then _ **

The smell of blood stung Sansa’s nostrils.

Her Queensguard had ordered her to hide in her solar right when the screaming started. Wretched, nightmarish shrieks that tore Winterfell’s night in shreds. She struggled to breathe, doing her best to remain quiet while she waited for her guard to return and tell her what all the fracas was about.

It was nigh on twelve years since her crowning in the hallowed halls of her family’s ancestral seat. Even now, her heart clamouring inside her chest, fear raising goose-pimples along her arms and the back of her neck, the memory still made her smile. When ruling became tiresome, and the petty complaints of her vassals and the smallfolk brought nothing but an aching head—it was the memory of _that _day that energised her flagging spirits.

Her handmaidens had started preparations at the crack of dawn. A trio of barely-flowered girls enlisted from lesser houses of the North – Cassel, Warrick and Mazin. After the War of the Five Kings and the Great War after that, there weren’t many noble ladies to choose from. But she’d made do with Rosaline, Freya and Delia well enough, even with their nervous giggling and inability to do a perfect plaited coronet. They’d bathed her in rose-scented water, brushed her hair one hundred times till it shone, carefully robed her in the Stark grey silk gown that Sansa had sewn herself with some help from a few other skilled seamstresses. And then the crown, placed carefully on her head, before she made her way through the hallways of her childhood, heart caught in her chest with excitement and pride, to the throne-room where her people waited, knees bent. _For her_.

A tormented wail sounded through the air. It sounded like it was coming from the kitchens. Sansa flinched, drawing a hiccup of air into her lungs, mouth dry. Shaking her head, she took herself back to that day.

_The day she became who she was always meant to be._

The thrill of all of them showing obeisance, honouring her for the many sacrifices she’d made for her people. It had made her tremble with anticipation. And, she’d never told a soul, it had made her moist between her legs, her nipples prickling with a strange dark licentiousness—to _finally_ have everything she’d won. To answer to no one but herself_. To finally be a queen._

Of course, it wasn’t all easy after that. Ruling was a challenge. All the wars had left her kingdom devastated and the coffers nigh empty. They’d experienced several bad harvests that depleted the stores they’d built in the winter and her people had struggled to replenish them with new provisions. However, with some assistance from Uncle Edmure, which had required rather more grovelling than Sansa would’ve liked, they had weathered the difficulties, somewhat. The land still refused to produce the way it did before, and they were still struggling to build any form of meaningful trade as a new independent dominion. But, they survived well enough. Everyone merely had to tighten their belts for a little longer and heed her wisdom. She wasn't called Sansa the Wise for nothing.

She’d made sure to surround herself with voices that respected her authority and venerable position. Lord Glover could be trying on occasion, of course. And some of the other lords didn’t respect a woman, especially an unmarried one, her widowhood notwithstanding. They often refused to take any of her gilded threats seriously. One would think that having a cock made a good ruler—a notion Sansa knew to be entirely bollocks after seeing her brothers, and even her father, fail so miserably at it. Nevertheless, she had managed to squash most glimmers of dissent with a careful combination of a firm right hand and using courtesy as her armour.

_“No, no, please. Please don’t hurt—.”_

Sansa’s head snapped towards the sound, apprehension widening her eyes as the blood drained from her head. That had sounded like Delia. Her voice near-unrecognisable, wracked with tears and terrible fear.

Feeling faint, Sansa shed the instinct to cower into her chair.

_She was the Queen in the North, for the Warrior’s sake!_ She need not fear anyone. 

Indignant, she rose from her seat, and crept to the door as quietly as she could in her embroidered day slippers. Thankful that she hadn’t yet changed into her night rail when this attack began, she took a deep breath to strengthen her resolve determined to understand what had happened.

It was so odd. There’d been no army. Her scouts hadn’t reported any forces approaching Winterfell. None of her bannermen had sent ravens.

Even the Night King’s army had made some sort of noise, grim and terrifying as they’d been. The shuffling of dead limbs, the stench of rotting bodies, the eldritch roar of the wights’ craving for Death.

_But this_…. Her brow furrowed. _This had come out of nowhere, silent as the night and twice as dark_.

Just as she put her fingers to the door-knob it banged open. She scrambled a few steps back to find one of her guards, Ser Carwyn Poole standing before her. He seemed to have been through a rather difficult bout with whatever was attacking them, some of his armour splotched with blood and a scarlet smear across his left cheek, sweat dripping off his brow.

“Ser Carwyn, you are injured!”

“My Queen,” he said. His eyes glassy. He must have been in _terrible_ pain. Sansa felt for him. “You must come now, so we can keep you safe.”

He spoke with an outlandish cadence. The words careful and almost monotonous. Sansa wondered if he was in a form of shock. Perhaps his injuries were more severe than they appeared.

“What has happened?”

“You must come with me, now. To be safe.” He hadn’t answered her. Normally, Sansa would see that as insolence. But she couldn’t blame the man for being in such a state after what he’d likely seen downstairs. Those screams had sounded dreadful.

As she made to follow him, he turned around sharply to walk ahead of her. Again, in normal circumstances, this would be an insult—to walk before his queen in this manner. But, obviously, the man was trying to protect her. Brave as he was. She straightened her spine and followed him through the gloomy corridors.

Many of the candelabra had been snuffed out, with only a few sputtering here and there. Their weak light barely strong enough to cast more than hulking shadows on the walls. Winter had come and gone, and the heated walls of the keep managed to keep most of the cold out but there was an unwelcome draught whispering through the air that prompted her to hug her arms to herself. She ought to have put a coat on.

“Where are you taking me, Ser Carwyn? Surely, we should be heading to the armoury? Or perhaps the godswood?”

“I am taking you to where we can keep you safe, my Queen,” he uttered.

Sansa huffed. She couldn’t argue with the man’s determination to ensure her safety. But he’d never been so discourteous.

The good thing is that if they were headed towards the great hall it must mean the threat had been dealt with. With a smile of pride, Sansa reminisced about how her father had always spoken of Winterfell’s impenetrability as a fortress. While, the army of the dead had managed to break through some of the outer walls, and into the keep—it was highly unlikely that a human force could do the same. Even with the steady-but-slow repairs she’d managed to get done thus far, the castle was a marvel in the North.

The stench of fresh-spilt blood grew stronger the closer they got to the hall. And so, did the dead bodies. With a horrified gasp, Sansa looked at one of her handmaidens, barely recognisable under the garish curtain of blood on her face, her arms set at an odd angle that reminded Sansa of the flayed men of her dead husband’s family.

She shivered at the thought of Ramsey—she’d not thought of him in years. Clutching her hands together until her knuckles turned white, she forced herself to put those memories away. But the screams. They’d sounded much the same. Pinching the soft skin at her inner wrist to bring her out of her own mind, she blinked and focused on the dull gleam of Carwyn’s armour. She didn’t want to think of that time in her life.

Over in the corner, next to one of her family’s ancient suits of armour displayed in the entrance hall, was one of the cooks. His stomach torn open with an unnatural brutality, entrails still steaming like a coil of crimson snakes. A bloodied handprint on the grey-brick archway that led into the anteroom that preceded the great hall, the centre of Winterfell.

“_Gods_… what could have done this?”

A fresh terror seeped through her limbs with such force that she almost collapsed. But she forced herself to remain upright. A queen did not show fear. Eyes prickling, she followed her guard into the room, which seemed remarkably empty.

The lanterns were lit, so at least it wasn’t pitch. But the quiet was… _odd_.

Frowning, Sansa turned to Ser Carwyn, “Where is everyone?”

Carwyn had stopped walking, his head bowed, his chest moving in strange agitation as though he was struggling to breathe. Racing towards him, until she could face him, Sansa’s eyebrows shot up in alarm as she saw him take hold of a small blade with both hands and raise his arms before stabbing himself in the belly.

She shouted, “Ser Carwyn, stop!”

But he did not listen. He merely kept stabbing himself, over and over again. The glazed look in his eyes dimming and dimming until his pupils rolled back and he fell with the dagger in his heart and his fists stained red. _Dead_.

Sansa felt the presence near her throne, a little way behind her, before she heard it.

“Hello, dear sister.”

Shaking her head in disbelief, she turned around, slowly. Perhaps hoping that this was all a terrible dream, and she would wake soon enough to find things as they were this morn.

But it wasn’t to be. For there, sitting on her throne, the throne her father had sat on as Warden, and hundreds of Starks before them was Jon.

Not the Jon she remembered. The sad, gentle bastard brother who always seemed to shrink around most people—certainly she could remember him doing so even when they were all children, especially around Mother. When he was King in the North, he’d had a palpable discomfort with bearing the mantle.

No, the man sitting on that chair was entirely different.

His hair was windswept and fell in curls to his shoulders. His skin was rather pale but not sickly. There was a vitality to him. He wore black from head-to-toe, a silk shirt with fine leather trousers, and a fitted gambeson that held no markings of allegiance. As a man of the Night’s Watch that made some sense. They held no affiliations.

His eyes, however, glittered with something … _cruel_? She noticed there was a smudge of blood on his lip, too. Perhaps he had fought with someone at close hand.

He was comely—she’d noted this since they reunited at Castle Black and had occasionally caught herself looking without meaning to. But his looks had sharpened over time. There was a dangerous quality to him now. Where, before, Jon Snow always tried to disappear in a crowd, to make himself small to match the insignificance and shame of his birth. This man did not seem to care where he was or to whom he was speaking.

“Or should I call you ‘dear cousin’?” He sounded like he was laughing as he asked himself the question. A mocking tone to his deep, sonorous voice.

“Jon, what are you doing here? Your exile has not been lifted,” she asked, trying her best to assert a regal authority to the questions. She was the queen after all. “Did you come to help?”

Somehow, Sansa had an inkling that he hadn’t come for that. And when he smiled, a feral baring of his teeth, she was sure of it.

She took a step back.

“Oh, would you look at that, my love? I do believe, she’s afraid.” The voice came from behind. Sansa whipped around to face it, eyes widening in disbelief as she saw _a dead woman walking_.

“You—you can’t be—.”

Daenerys laughed. A sultry, wicked sound as she slinked passed towards Jon. “Hello, Sansa Stark.”

_How could this be? This was—worse than any nightmare_.

If Jon had seemed dangerous, Daenerys was deadly. She wore a dress that looked like spilled ink on her lithe body, a crimson so deep it seemed black. It clung to her curves, her breasts pale moons at the top of the bodice. Her hair hung down her back in waves, free of the braids she used to wear. A familiar dragon chain looped over her chest and shoulder. A reminder of the queen she’d once been, perhaps.

It was an odd thing to note, but for some reason, Daenerys didn’t seem much older than a woman of twenty-three or so. Sansa was nearing thirty-three and the rigours of ruling had already birthed new lines on her brow and a few grey hairs. Daenerys seemed _too_ youthful. Jon had a clear streak of white in his hair and some of the hardships he’d endured showed on his face but even he had a certain… dynamism that seemed almost _otherworldly_.

“How is this possible?” Sansa asked out loud. “How—_you killed her_, Jon? You told us so. How—.”

“I came back,” Jon said, his voice quiet as he reminded her. “Sometimes, people come back.”

_Resurrection_. The realisation was alarming. None of them had ever thought of it.

He held out his arm to Daenerys, drawing her close until she was practically sprawled across his lap indecently, both legs thrown across his. Clasping the back of her head, Jon kissed her, their mouths open and hungry. Even from this distance, Sansa could hear the obscene slurping sounds as they practically ate at one another with no shame or consideration for their audience.

She pointedly cleared her throat in irritation.

They ignored her for several seconds more before pulling away from each other, Jon groaning with an open wantonness as he stared at the woman in his lap. She could see Daenerys rubbing her bottom against Jon’s front. Jon’s hands slid to hold her hips, either to still her or press her closer to his groin as he thrust up a little.

_Did they intend to rut at each other like dogs in heat right before her eyes!_

Sansa made a sound of disgust, forcing herself to look away, and ignoring the coil of—well, of envy, deep in her gut at watching their mutual and very willing desire for one another.

She’d taken lovers in her time as Queen. It had been hard at first, the shadow of Ramsey, and even Joffrey, had made her fearful and hesitant of even her own body. But, she’d first found some quiet and gentle tradesmen, visitors to her court, and then a few rough-hewn labourers who’d come from places like White Harbour to aid in the keep’s repairs. Even a few women among them, although that was harder—perhaps in places like Dorne it wouldn’t be so. Nonetheless, her lovers had been easy to order into her rooms and seduce. All of them commoners who’d never thought to have the _privilege_ of a true lady to fuck, a story they could hold onto for the rest of their miserable lives.

None of them had looked at her the way Jon looked at Daenerys, though. That much was for certain.

“We were attacked this night,” Sansa stated, hoping to restore some manner of civility to this increasingly disturbing exchange in which she was watching a woman who should be dead and her brother who should’ve been beyond the wall act inappropriately right in front of her. “Did you see the people who did it? Or how many are dead?”

“Everyone,” Jon said simply.

The word didn’t register immediately. “E-excuse me?”

“Everyone’s dead.” He said it as though he was remarking on the afternoon weather. “For a keep with Winterfell’s renown, it was remarkably easy to do, in fact.”

Sansa shook her head. Her mind refusing to comprehend what her brother’s revelation implied.

“They hardly put up a fight at first,” Daenerys added. “Some of them even seemed thrilled to see their king back after so many years. Almost like they’d missed him.”

“No….”

Jon smirked, his teeth gleamed white under the hazy orange lantern-light. “Yes….”

“You d-did this.” It felt foolish to say it out loud. _Jon would never do this. Would never kill scores of people_.

“I had some help.” He looked indulgently at Daenerys. Absurdly, Sansa’s mind flashed back to that night so long ago when she’d asked him if he bent the knee for love or because he had to. His face had worn that same look of shy adoration. As though Daenerys was the embodiment of every dream he’d ever had. It was just as irritating to observe now as it had been then.

“How? _Why_?”

There were only two of them. How was it possible that they’d slain an entire keep within hours? How did they not seem even slightly winded or ruffled by it all? They must have had some sort of elite force at their disposal. The questions scurried at breakneck speed through Sansa’s mind. She thought she might faint with it.

“You’re asking the wrong questions, Lady Stark—or should I call you ‘queen’,” Daenerys said, her voice cool and mocking, sharp as a whetted blade.

Hackles raised, Sansa couldn’t help but sneer. This dragon bitch had ruined _everything. _Separating the pack, making it so she’d been left all alone without her family._ It was all her fault!_

“And what questions should I be asking, Daenerys?”

The woman smiled at the disrespectful address but there was something menacing about how her plump lips curved upward like that. “You should be wondering why it is _you’re_ still breathing.”

Sansa’s mouth felt dry. She struggled to swallow around the stone of nervousness at the back of her throat. “Why am I, then?”

Jon sighed, a heavy put-upon sound as if he’d been greatly inconvenienced by the entire conversation. “You won’t be for long, don’t worry, cousin.” He lifted Daenerys up so he could stand, letting her take a seat. “I just wanted to greet you before I relieved you of your—well, your life.” He said it with such dispassion. It was alarming.

Face crumbling, tears burning hot, Sansa could only ask with a broken voice, “_Why_?”

Jon laughed then, an abrasive sound that battered at the walls of the throne room and echoed until it felt as if the sound was coming at her from all sides.

“‘Why’, she asks.”

One moment he was standing by the dais and the next he was by her side, his hand on her shoulder. Sansa gasped at his unnatural speed. _What kind of creature had he become?_

“_Think_, cousin. _Think_.” he grasped the back of her head with a shocking tenderness, his fingers running through her hair.

Involuntarily, Sansa felt her eyes drift to his mouth. This close, she could see the faint smears of blood there, the way they made his full lips glisten.

“What are you?” she whispered.

Jon stepped behind her, the firm hand on her shoulder felt heavy. He spoke in her ear, voice low, his cold breath fluttering by her earlobe in a way that made her jolt. “Your mother, do you remember the thing she was most afraid of when it came to me—her husband’s bastard son?”

Sansa tried to shake her head, but he held her still.

“Don’t lie now,” he urged with a deceptive sweetness. “I know you remember. You were her most devoted pupil after all.”

Gulping, Sansa closed her eyes to recall Mother whenever she’d spoken about _that bastard_. The way her lips had curled in disgust, her entire body strained, unmistakeable bitterness in every syllable. “She—she was afraid that you would be—that you’d be the ruin of House Stark.”

Her eyelids cracked open to meet Daenerys watching them both with a ravenous intensity.

“I wonder what she’d think of me now. Living up to all her expectations.”

“Jon—you can’t do—.”

“That’s where you’re mistaken.”

It was in that moment that Sansa Stark understood that she was going to die. Everything she fought for and survived, and it would end like this. She wanted to cry.

So, she used her tongue as a blade, it was surely the only weapon she had left.

“So that’s it? You wish to be a Queenslayer twice-over? An oathbreaker, too? How _fitting_. For a bastard.” It was a cruel thing to say, and she could see Daenerys’ eyes widen with anger. The hand on her shoulder dug in painfully, she could feel the bruise forming already and hear the bones creaking.

“You have little room to speak on the subject of breaking one’s oaths, _cousin_,” he hissed, a barely-leashed rage emanating from every word.

Despite herself, Sansa felt a curdling shame at the reminder of what she’d done so long ago. Her father would’ve rolled in his resting place to know she’d broken a sacred vow made in the godswood. Wincing at the blinding pain in her neck and shoulder, she reminded herself as she always had to: she’d had her reasons, she’d won in the end. That was all that mattered. She’d not apologise for it now. Certainly not to the fiend wearing her brother’s face.

“Jon,” his lover called out softly. “You don’t have to be the one to do this.” In a blink, she was standing next to him on Sansa’s left side. “I’m with you, _always_.”

There was something so sweet about her vow, incongruously vulnerable for two creatures who had to be unimaginably powerful and lacking in any conscience whatsoever.

“I know. _Always_.”

Sansa could hear the smile in his voice. It was a promise and a pledge.

When the teeth plunged into the skin at her throat, she screeched in agony. She saw the blood—her own blood—spray from the tear in her flesh. Jon didn’t seem to care. Another set of teeth joined his, this bite just as vicious.

_They were demons, both_.

Sansa saw bright dots appear, her eyelids grew heavy, a sensation of weightlessness entered her body.

And then, nothing.

** _ now _ **

“So, there you have it, the sordid tale complete. I killed my own sister and I enjoyed it. These hands,” he said as he looked at them, “Have done all manner of evil, spilled all kinds of blood.”

“What about now, do you feel remorse?” Once again, Dr Westerly felt like there was a reaction she _should_ be having but she couldn’t recall what it was. So, she merely watched her patient as he ran an agitated hand through his long hair, free from its bun. He was now hunched over on the couch.

His brow furrowed as he considered her question. “Sometimes. Other times, I celebrate it—she deserved it. She hurt people I loved, she hurt me, as well. Betrayed me, broke sacred vows. But I imagine…” he drifted off.

“You imagine?”

“I suppose, I imagine how my father might feel about it all—my adoptive father.” Jon had told her that he’d been raised by his uncle after his birth father passed on from a freak robbery, clubbed to death by a fat bandit (the bandit’s pot belly always seemed to be a sticking point for Jon). From all accounts, his Uncle Ned had been a wonderful dad who died tragically young from a freak beheading.

There seemed to be several ‘freak’ accidents in Jon’s tragic past.

“He’d despise me for what I did. He’d never forgive me.”

“Perhaps it’s most important for you to forgive yourself.”

“I don’t know if I can do that, doc. I’m not sure creatures like me are built for that sort of thing.”

Dr Westerly was very familiar with Jon’s propensity for self-flagellation. He had what she would call a latent Martyr Complex that he hadn’t been able to outgrow in the thirty odd years she’d known him. Add the self-punishment and constant self-castigation, and he was an angsty kid in dire need of a hug.

“What does your wife say?” She had never met his wife, a woman Jon referred to only as Dany. It was clear they were desperately in love—although, in Dr Westerly’s estimation they displayed an unhealthy level of co-dependency and some highly dysfunctional behaviours at times.

“We’re not speaking right now.”

“Oh dear. For how long, Jon?”

“Five years—we had a fight, you see. She stabbed me in the gut with a knife and I broke her neck. We decided we needed some time apart.” _High dysfunction, indeed_.

She sent him a pitying look.

“Oh, don’t worry—I’ve ran into her a few times at some society functions, she’s involved in a lot of charity for homeless kids, trafficked youth, that sort of thing. Also, a few parties. And at a couple of our houses. We’ve mostly made up,” he said as though it was the most reasonable thing in the world. “And the sex is still amazing, I can’t deny that… that woman is in my damn blood, and I love her more than my own life. We’re just not talking to each other for a bit.” Dr Westerly wasn’t even sure what to say to that.

The alarm clock rang to signal the end of their session.

“Well, I guess that’s it, doc. Thank you for today.”

He was gathering up his coat and wallet, the pack of cigarettes and lighter he always seemed to have on him, and a rather archaic looking cell phone.

“Thank _you_, Jon. Will I see you next month?”

“Actually, I’m heading on a trip—might not be back for a few months. Possibly years. But I’ll be sure to check back in, Catelyn.” He looked at her intently as he said it and Dr Westerly found herself nodding as he bowed politely and made his way out.

Hours later, she wouldn’t remember much except for the scarred hands of an anonymous man playing with one of her stress balls.

** _ then _ **

Jon didn’t feel any remorse for this. Fucking the love of his life on the throne his uncle had sat on, and gods knew how many Starks before that. Nipping at Dany’s mouth, he yanked at her pretty dress until it bunched around her upper thighs while he fumbled with his own breeches, desperate to get his cock out and into her.

It was always like this when they killed, and even more so when they shared a body. A frenzy of need, needing to feel her slick cunt choking his cock, her mouth breathing into his, their hands clutching at each other as they fucked each other hard enough to blot the rest of the world out.

Sansa’s corpse lay a crumpled heap in the middle of the throne room, the whole of Winterfell had become a tomb for its former residents, and all Jon could think about was fucking Dany and working off the heightened edge of arousal that had coursed through him with the force of a gale the moment they’d started their rampage through Winterfell.

He pulled at the bodice of Dany’s dress, craning his head so he could taste her nipples, cupping her fleshy tit in his rough palms in a way that had her arching into him with a keening moan.

She was so wet. He could smell her, his mouth watering for a taste. But that would need to be for later. Right now, he needed to be _inside _her.

He said as much.

“Come on, love. I need your cunt. Come on, take me—all of me.”

The throne wasn’t particularly comfortable, it never had been. But Jon was thankful the seat was wide enough that Dany could straddle him, breasts pillowing his face as she clambered on her knees to line him up. He opened his mouth to suckle, drawing first one taut nipple into his mouth and then the other until they were flushed a dark pink and she was trembling above him.

When she sank down, sheathing his hardened girth in one go, they both cried out.

_Gods, she was tight_.

She put her hands up on the ornate back of the chair to gain a bit of leverage, and started to work her hips, riding him hard from the get-go. Jon let himself lean back to appreciate the view. Her breasts, a perfect handful, quivered with each thrust. Her face was scrunched up as she chased her own pleasure, fucking herself onto him with panting intent. 

“I wanted to do—_fuck, right there—_this to you all those years ago, you know. When I came up here to save this miserable place from the walkers.” Dany confessed it with a gasp, her eyes feverishly bright.

Jon chuckled, which quickly turned into a muffled growl when she tightened her vaginal muscles around him, her hips moving in a delicious circle. “Me too. Dreamed of it every other night. Dreamed of fucking you right here in front of all those ungrateful lords.”

“Yeah?” she grinned, her lips looked lush as berries, slick-still with blood. “I would’ve let you.”

She was close but he shoved his left hand under her skirts anyway to bring her over. Dabbling at her pussy, he strummed her pearl, leaning up to lap at her mouth.

“Would’ve bent you over right here, taken your sweet little cunt,” he snarled, jerking his hips up to meet her downward thrusts. He snuck his left hand behind to slap her plump backside. Dany whimpered at the sharp split-second pain. “Then your arse—_fuck_!” His incisors lengthened, and he nipped at her lower lip, licking the droplet of blood that welled up. “Then that pretty mouth.”

With that, the mere taste of her, tangy and sweet, he was coming. His stones released torrent after torrent into her until he could feel it leaking out of her sheathe. One last pinch of her nub, and she was exploding too, cunt gripping him so tight that Jon bayed at how good it felt, sounding very much like the White Wolf he used to be.

Dany slumped against him, her body shuddering with aftershocks of pleasure. She pressed a tender kiss to his neck and started to doze. Jon felt his eyelids growing heavy, too.

After all, it had been a long night of terror they’d unleashed.

Before dawn, they would leave this place a ruin. Never to walk in its halls again.

** _ sometime after then… _ **

Many hours later, perhaps even days—at least it was well after the two creatures of the night had long since departed, amidst the pile of festering bodies in the mausoleum that Winterfell had become, a pair of wintry-blue eyes opened.

**Author's Note:**

> Is that a cliffhanger? Probably.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Feedback is cool.


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